Provecho

My street:


My room/apartment entrance:


I have about three months left in Mexico and I’m freaking out.

I know, I know three months is sooo much time and I shouldn’t already be feeling sad about leaving but the truth is that I am.

My relationships are strengthening, going beyond mere friendliness. Finally I feel like Mexico has become my adopted country, as opposed to just another country and culture that I have lived in and learned about. Already I am thinking about things that I will miss (other than the people): the fresh juicy mangos, the tropically shaded bugambilias that explode over every stone wall in the city of Cuernavaca and leave the streets smelling like sweet perfume, the tacos and late-night gringas (another delicious cheesy version of tortillas and al pastor meat), the salsa classes, the commute to UTEZ, the constant sunshine, my students, my colleagues, the Spanish language, the drop-off/pick-up Laundromat services which include ironing and folding, the cheap taxis, the Mexican people, and one of my favorite Mexican customs, lo de “provecho.”

The view down onto my host property/pool from my second-floor room.


A gringa in the making (just call it a Mexican cheesesteak):


We learned about provecho from the first week of Fulbright orientation in Mexico City, but it never fails to make me smile when I see it in action. So what is it? Provecho comes from the word aprovechar, which means “to make the most of.” In practice, it is a simple word that is said by every Mexican individual in the presence of someone who is eating. It is equivalent to “enjoy” or “bon apetit.”

The reason why I love it so much is the frequency with which it is used, the goodwill emitted by the word, and the level on which it represents the Mexican culture as a whole.

I hear it when I am eating my Tupperware salad in the teachers’ lounge at UTEZ and a student comes in for a meeting with his or her professor. “Provecho!”

I hear it when I am out to dinner and a certain party leaves their table and passes mine on the way to the exit. “Provecho!”

I hear it when snacking on something in the central plaza of Cuernavaca and a stranger sits on the bench near me. “Provecho!”

It is a simple 3-syllable word that brings immeasurable goodwill to a meal. And it is the story of my adopted culture. The Mexicans are a culture who enjoy their lives, who always seek pleasure out of whatever hand they are dealt with, who spend time with each other, and who usually desire the best for their fellow Mexicans. They are (at times illogically) generous, go out of their way to be helpful (even if they are incapable of helping, ie/ in giving wrong directions or running across the street to ask someone else and coming back to report to you instead of simply saying “no sé”), open, positive, and always see the glass as half-full.

Certainly there are aspects of my own culture that I miss dearly (punctuality, efficiency, speed, etc.). But there are also things about the Mexican culture which I have come to love, most especially provecho, and which I will do my best to bring home to my culture and apply to my everyday life.

And now... to aprovechar my last three months here.

Love

I am currently sitting in the window of the lobby of the Hotel Emporio, on a couch, watching the people walk by outside and trying to figure out my next move of the day (Dad just left earlier this afternoon and we stayed here two nights).


(me and Dad)

This is a great station to people-watch, as I enjoy a rich sweet chai latte and kinda dry banana muffin. The hotel is situated right in the middle of the business district of Mexico City, on one of the main avenues, Reforma. There are business people walking by on their “comida” break (women in stilettos and men in black leather shoes), couples donning red and strolling hand-in-hand bearing gifts and flowers (it’s Valentine’s Day), blonde foreigners enjoying the crisp sunny day, old ladies on daily errands, orange-helmeted workers crossing the street carrying large white pipes, hipsters with their messenger bags gliding along in the bike lane, red double decker tour buses, teenagers on their way home from school, and dusty street venders pedaling their miscellaneous snacks and crafts.







In the middle of this people-watching, a little gray ball of fuzz caught my eye, right in the middle of the sidewalk in front of the window. I thought it was a piece of trash until it turned its little head toward me and I saw a miniature beak below two beady black eyes, staring in my direction. A baby bird. A wave of nerves washed over me as each heeled or sneakered foot barely missed stomping the lost little guy. Should I go out and move it? There’s a square patch of earth just inches from this perilous position where it could at least be out of harm’s way. But I have all of my bags with me; I can’t just leave them unattended. Plus, I wouldn’t want to get a disease from touching it… as cute as it is.

As these futile thoughts passed through my mind, I started to observe a broader scene closing in on the little bird’s concrete world. From the left, a couple in their twenties wearing sneakers unknowingly approached the bird at a leisurely pace. From the right, a short old woman wearing a blanket around her shoulders, ragged black orthopedic shoes, and holding a Styrofoam cup in her wrinkled and dirty right hand also hobbled in the bird’s direction. As she walked she thrust the cup into the path of each oncoming passerby, asking for a few coins. This is it. The bird has seen its last moments. There is no escaping this one.

I began to cringe, wondering if I even wanted to watch. All of a sudden though, in a single moment, the couple noticed two things: the woman and the bird. As they set sight upon the impending white Styrofoam cup, they immediately averted their gaze downward to avoid the woman, slightly shaking their heads but continuing their conversation with each other. As they turned their gaze to the concrete below, they saw the bird and at the last moment veered around it. The old woman, whose pleading eyes were set on the couple’s faces, saw their actions and in turn stopped in her tracks, lowered the cup, and looked down at the helpless creature. The couple brushed shoulders with the woman as they continued their walk, and the woman circled the bird, still looking down at it, and finally stooped down to pick it up. I saw the fluttering of gray feathers as the bird escaped from the woman’s grasp and saved itself.

Why this event warranted a blog post, I know not, but I do know that I was affected by it. I immediately thought back to the day I was in the City Line Ave Starbucks at SJU, right on the corner of the eternally busy intersection of 54th street. I was trying to study but became much more interested in an apparently homeless and probably mentally ill black man who was repeatedly crossing the street, going back and forth between trashcans and digging around inside of them. He disappeared for about five minutes at one point and came back to the intersection with a 711 sandwich, which he ate upon entering the Starbucks and sitting in the armchair next to me. He would stand up, then sit down again, then stand up and straighten his coat, then take a seat, then try to start a nonsensical conversation with the girl across from us.

Not-so-surprisingly, he stood up again at one point and exited once more into the intersection, crossing 54th street. This time though he did not complete the traverse and instead stopped in the middle of the one-way street and bent over to pick up something, presumably trash or a nickel. He turned back around and entered once more into Starbucks with the mystery trash item in his hand. Holding it up, he asked rather loudly if anyone had lost something. I looked closely and my eyes focused not on a piece of trash, but rather on a shiny new Blackberry.

Take these stories however you like; I thought they were worth sharing.

Happy Valentine’s Day 